You Are Not Alone
by MoonbeamDreamer
Summary: Christine & Erik formed a bond known only to them while rehearsing Don Juan. But will it affect their futures and repeat the ultimatum we all wish for? Based on book and musical.
1. I am frightened

So… this first bit is a little songfic-ish, but the rest of the "phan-fic" will _not_ be similar. The entire fic is loosely based on the novel by Gaston Leroux and the Andrew Lloyd Weber/Charles Hart musical. Basically I own nothing. Sad, but true.

* * *

_Cellars below the Opera Garnier. Two days before the opening of Don Juan Triumphant._

Christine Daaé crouched in a corner of the Louis-Philippe room, head bent to avoid the horrors of thought. She had been abandoned over time, her entire life. First her sickly mother, then her deceased father, and now the young Vicomte. The girl had thought she could trust Raoul or even Meg to come save her, but they had not. Raoul loved one god: Money; to serve this idol, his secret fiancée must be sacrificed to _him_. She must learn her part intensively to be Aminta in the Phantom's Don Juan Triumphant. Christine had given up the endearment _"mon ange"_, for he had killed so many! And yet… there was something in his sometimes gentle manner, his servile ways, and their mutual love for music that made her that much more alive every time his voice came to embrace her ear.

_No!_ She buried her face betwixt her knees. This was _precisely_ why she would not allow herself to think. He was already physically present, had been for the past month of vigorous vocal training. He could not invade her mind.

Her thoughts seemed to summon him as a knock sounded on the threshold. Reflexively she looked up, setting her chocolate curls bouncing.

"It is time for today's lesson." Erik, as she'd learned was the name of her tutor, murmured. He could look her in the eye anywhere but this, her private chamber.

Wearily she stood and attempted to plead. "Why can't you just let me go?"

"Why?" His voice was stony in the face of her rejection. "You return in two days at any rate. Perhaps you'll never see me again."

Christine quavered where she stood. How long was two days here, underground where no sun could warm her brow? "I am frightened."

Erik sighed so forcefully it became an angry sob.

"Not by you!" She hastily amended.

"Then by what?" Came his defeated whisper.

"I… I don't know." She paused. "That is what frightens me."

"It is time for today's lesson." He repeated mechanically. "Come."

She followed obediently, heading for the Phantom's organ.

"We shan't use that today." He leaned against a wall, watching her. "We shall perform the final duet _a capella_, with as much reality as though this were opening night."

"Oh." Christine answered lamely.

After a brief, twin warm-up, Erik turned to her. "Start from Aminta's soliloquy."

She nodded, and fixed herself into the character. In fact, Aminta was not far from Christine, a blatant parallel on Erik's part. Both were young, naïve, and believers in Love above all else.

_No thoughts within her head_

_But thoughts of joy…_

_No dreams within her heart_

_But dreams of_

_Love…_

A shiver ran down her spine as thoughts, not of Raoul but of the masked man before her, emerged.

Erik passed over the cunning Passarino's bit and into Don Juan's opening.

_You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge… _

_In pursuit of that wish which 'til now has been silent…_

_Silent…_

It was then the epiphany came. Raoul was a passing fancy, easily replaced. Erik was so much more. He lifted her to such euphoria, and she felt protected when he was there. Her mind had been molded by Society, but no matter what they said, he _was_ her Angel of Music. He had wanted her to know this all along, and finally she had, through his moving opera.

_You have brought me to that moment when words run dry…_

She hardly was aware that she sang. Instead Christine neared Erik, causing him great uneasiness. Never had she come to him of her own volition! Venturing from indifferent abandonment to the brush of her fingers on his flushed cheek was a complete, but not unwelcome, juxtaposition. He shuddered once and took her small hands in his stronger ones, leading them across his face and to the mask, his misanthropy, his barrier from Humanity.

_Past the Point of No Return_

_The final threshold…_

The force of their voices intertwined pinned the two, her back to his front, hands freed from rigorous reins into requited Love.

_The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn._

_We've passed the Point of No Return…_

The motion froze, as though the song's end had stopped Time. Christine savored the feel of his hands on her waist, knowing this might be their last embrace. _But why should it?_ Her thoughts rebelled.

She turned to see his penetrating eyes, a blue witnessed on the surface of a frozen pond. "I am frightened of the love I hold for you." The exertion of this, her confession, tossed her limply to his chest.

Erik's breath timidly danced on her tresses. Then it came harsher, more needing, as he cupped her chin and pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss, the mingling of their souls, set every bit of Christine afire. She moaned against him as he lifted her into his arms. His sure and ready frame carried them back to her chamber. Black lace curtains floated about them as her hair fanned out on the crimson, satin sheets, his every kiss upon her skin heralding the rightness of their love.


	2. Why then did you leave me?

My life has kind of gone from Perfection to Damnation relatively quickly, so I can empathize with Erik right now.

Sorry if the secret entrance to Erik's "lair" is incorrect. I am out-of-town for the month, and my beloved copy of the novel is at home. Ergo, I am relying heavily on an online copy of Leroux's work. Which sucks.

I own neither The Phantom of the Opera nor Mozart's Requiem Mass. How unfortunate, because I really like WAM's work. (I highly recommend the Requiem Mass. And Marriage of Figaro Can you say _Il Muto_? Yah.)

* * *

_One month after "the end"._

Christine de Chagny née Daaé crashed through the brackish shallows just before Erik's house on the lake. She had crept through the labyrinthine paths off the Rue Scribe entrance. It had been fairly easy, as her home had been made in these depths just before the famous disaster. No one had seen her come in, as her feet retained balletic grace.

And it seemed none waited for her; the house was empty, the sense of being left abruptly stained the air. Sheet music still littered every surface and a goblet of half-drunk wine stood on the prized organ.

After lighting the candelabra, she wearily sat on the accompanying bench. Perhaps her frantic flight from the country to Paris and then here had been in vain. Not so long ago Christine had realized her mistake in leaving Erik to rot, and now there was nothing she could do to save him.

As was her wont, she sang to express herself. The haunting Lachrymosa from Mozart's Requiem Mass issued from her open mouth. If only _he_ had been beside her, playing the organ in this black dirge! But, as he could not, she stood beside it, tears streaking her face and clear high voice echoing off the subterranean walls.

Her voice broke, and she fell into shaking sobs. Sobs for the Love that had lost. Sobs for the feeling that she had come too late.

That was when she heard it. Soft at first but beginning to ripple, the sound of a prow lapping the water was a clarion call to her ears. Christine turned expectantly to the source, heart hammering with resurrected joy.

There he was, guiding the gondola through the murky waters. Her brow creased, for he seemed to use the pole more for support than as a mode of transportation. If he had been thin before, he was emaciated now, a Phantom in truth. Her ring glittered upon his knuckle. The only signs of life were his alert eyes, labored breath, and forward motion.

"Is that a voice in Latin I hear?" He mused. "Bah! The dead language is reserved only for funerals, and I am hardly dead."

Two boots, unpolished for quite some time, staggered onto shore as the vessel ran up the sand.

"Christine…" He breathed wearily.

"Erik!" She beamed, spreading her arms wide to embrace him.

It was then he noticed the subtle changes in Christine. Her small chest had grown a bit voluptuous, and juxtaposed against her rail-thin arms was a slight rounding of the abdomen. In the weak candlelight, a wedding band wrapped about her ring finger.

All strength flooded back to his feverish frame. "No!" Erik snarled, striding past her and into the house.

Christine, knowing what he had observed, followed at a run. "Please! _Mon ange! _Wait!"

He whirled about in a delirium, supported by the mantle of the salon. His laughter was eerie when compared to his sickly features. Christine shrank back against the opposite wall, ruing what she had caused.

"You come here calling me your angel while you swell with a de Chagny brat! I cannot believe your audacity!" He chuckled darkly in his musical voice. "Yet even now you strive to hide from me."

"No!" She dashed headlong and threw herself at his feet. He wavered once as she latched about his leg but otherwise stood stock-still.

"Oh God, oh God…" He kept muttering, an incantation to change the nightmare. Christine would give anything for him to see differently, to understand the truth.

"Erik." She looked up at him. "This is your child! I love you alone. That is why I have returned!"

He mouthed the words "this is yours". She heard his tongue click in the parched mouth as he fought to understand how.

Standing, she took his hands and softly sang to his eyes, "Past the Point of No Return, the final threshold…"

Illumination caught in his eyes, and Erik wept for joy. "How I'd missed your voice, Christine." He gasped in the name. "Christine! I love you…" Then his hand again felt the cold metal of Raoul's mark upon her finger. "Oh, Christine… why then did you leave me?" His eyes rolled into his skull and he collapsed against the mantle. The mask shifted an inch to one side.

"Erik!" Christine shrieked. Carried by the passion of their exchange, she half-lifted, half-dragged him to her old chamber. He lay unconscious on the cold bed, even when she piled on more sheets.

Drained physically by journey and mentally by the sight of the Angel ill before her, Christine sprawled on the mattress beside him, but not before removing the Vicomte's rings and placing them in a bedside drawer.

That was one pain she could not stand to see in the Angel's eyes.


	3. Those were lovely velvet pants

The beginning is good… then a lull in the middle, then it's quite interesting at the end. Meh. Sorry. Subsequent chapters will be better.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Dante or Poe, and neither does Matthew Pearl, so there! And Moulin Rouge unfortunately isn't mine, along with Phantom. And if you don't get the "Masque of the Red Death" reference, I highly suggest you read the short story. It's fantastically sexabolical. I wish I were Jane Austen, but I neither own rights to her work or am she.

* * *

Here again came the terror. Erik watched Christine vanish into the distance. Immediately her ring in his palm burned as a brand. He could not escape it, but he could seek solace for his pain. 

Glass shattered at his feet. Instead of destroying his image, the shards refracted a distorted monster's face. Each splinter metamorphosed into a vicious, repulsive demon. They chased his fleeing feet, scorched his miserable heels.

The passage behind the mirror took many twists and turns; ironically these hellish corridors led him to the one lovely space in his home…

Moonlight, or something more divine, danced over the well, that landmark where Christine had first lain unconscious in his trembling arms. He could die here, Erik thought as he lowered himself beside it, and know his spirit would have rest.

The grating of a hull on sand contradicted his thoughts. There she was, his Angel, come to bring more ache to his heart. To make matters worse, the boy was with her.

Raoul stormed towards Erik and raised him with superhuman strength unbefitting his slight frame. "What do you here, Creature?" He growled. "Do not profane this sacred plot!"

Before Erik knew it, he was hurtling down the well. The sides were so irrevocably damp and moldy that there was not a foothold to be found. He would die in the Ninth Circle of Hell, shivering helplessly in icy water.

"Christine!" He wept, then thrashed. "Christine!"

Abruptly, his descent halted. A physical barrier reached into his metaphysical terror and awoke him.

His eyes opened on her face: warm, concerned, and oblivious to the pain she had caused him that night. Of course, the fall down the well was fiction, but everything else was real. So real.

Christine shushed him, and he feebly sensed her thumb tracing circles on his hand. Had he been stronger, this action would have aroused him to further pleasures. Now it was merely a welcome comfort.

"I'm here," she smiled. "I'm always here."

He attempted to sit up and could only manage it with her support. His hand momentarily grazed her stomach, and he thought of how Christine would in no time be great with his child. _His_. Somehow it stoked the testosterone to pride himself like this.

But… _why_ was she here?

"Christine, does _he_ know you're here?" Erik's eyes searched hers, but she turned away, feigning confusion.

"Who?" She whispered.

"The Vicomte, of course! That ignorant, insolent, cocky, strutting, dandified…" Erik had to admit, once he got going, he could continue for hours.

Christine placed a finger over his lips; he noticed her eyes welled with unshed tears. "Please, let us not talk of this. I have brought some broth for you." She lifted a bowl from the bedside table.

"Have you eaten?" He asked. She lifted a spoon to his mouth. "I can feed myself." Even though he longed for affection, Erik was not that desperate. "And where did you get this?"

She handed him the soup with a smile. "Yes, I have, _merci_. And I believe you, along with everyone else, have forgotten I was a ballerina before I was a diva. I remember where the kitchens are… and how to sneak around."

He then noticed one of his dark cloaks flowed onto the floor from her shoulders. It could be interesting to have a Mistress of the Opera. Of course, this was already impossible. She was now officially the Vicomtesse de Chagny, whether she carried Erik's child or not. God, he had to stop; all he succeeded in doing with this seething was to irritate himself further.

"Christine." He addressed her profile, now deeply absorbed in thought. She turned after a time to look at him. "I am not well enough to entertain you today, so…"

"No matter." She grinned softly. "Do you have any books?"

Erik nearly choked in laughter on the broth, which savored deeply of chicken. "Do I have books! _Mon cher_, I have more books than China has tea!"

In a short time, after she'd gone off to his library, Christine returned, wide-eyed and carrying the anthology of Poe Erik had suggested. "What do you wish to read first?" She tenderly leaned upon his chest.

His smile was crooked and mischievous. "There's an intriguing tale called 'The Masque of the Red Death'."

He took a guilty pleasure in the tremor her voice contained by the end. "Oh my…" Christine murmured.

"Clever of me at the _bal masque_, was it not?"

"Actually, you frightened me quite a bit that night."

Erik stroked her hair. "It wasn't even a little thrilling?" He could feel her laughter on his chest.

"Those _were_ lovely velvet pants."

She continued with "Lenore". Her melodic voice carried about the room.

_For her, the fair and debonnaire, that now so lowly lies,  
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes -  
The life still there, upon her hair -the death upon her eyes._

_The life still there, upon her hair…_ Her words drifted into his troubled dreams.

He awoke soaked in sweat. Christine was gone, leaving the chamber empty and silent. He'd known her return was too good to be true. Sighing, he shifted his weary legs to the floor and attempted to stand. Rather disgracefully he fell, making a great clamor.

She rushed in, shawl about her face and bags in her arms. He was now quite perturbed. Not only was he wrong about her fidelity, he also was lying sprawled on the floor like a fool.

"Erik, _mon Dieu_!" Christine laughed, making matters worse. "I thought you were still asleep!"

"Where – where did you go?" He gasped as she helped him back to the bed. It was awfully soft and lumpy for someone accustomed to a coffin.

"I had to purchase food. And your library is wholly morbid." Christine asserted firmly. "You shan't get better if your mind is constantly on death."

"Lovely to know you can steal your pathetic Lover's money without shame." She shot him a fiery look, so he changed the subject. "The alternative to Poe is…" He trailed off into a groan as she produced a copy of Jane Austen.

"Come now… it is not entirely happy!" She chided.

"But does it have to be so… bucolic?" Surely, life could not get much worse.

* * *

The man passed an elegant hand over his unshaven features. His navy frock coat, not removed for several days and thus tatty, billowed on the Parisian midnight breeze. 

Once he was rather impressive. Now he had left his estate on a wild goose chase, for everything and for nothing.

But earlier he had seen his goal exiting a bookshop. Its hand was unadorned, a sight that riled him into an ungainly fistfight with an unsuspecting merchant. How dare she! Gallivanting about the capital without chaperone and without notice of belonging to a man!

Then she had passed down the Rue Scribe, disappearing in a late March fog that was more Anglo-Saxon than Gallic. Now he knew precisely where to find her.

"Oh monsieur…" A wine-coated throat giggled as its owner snaked her bare arm about his waist. "You will catch your death in this air!" A bedraggled head nuzzled itself into a most unladylike position. "Come to bed, monsieur."

As he followed the courtesan from the hills of Montmartre to the smoky, claustrophobic inn, one thought ran through his mind.

_Christine would be found._


	4. Funny how life went on in spite of you

The original draft of this was so horrendously sappy, that I almost put this Phic on hiatus. But I'm determined to finish it, so I put in nuances leading to the chapter's ending. Perhaps it's easier to do that when you're fully awake. I was exhausted because last night my aunt and I had a three hour commute back to Long Island after seeing _Giselle_ (mentioned in this chapter) at the Lincoln Center Festival. Please enjoy, but if you don't, flames are certainly welcome.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own: Phantom of the Opera, an organ, Giselle, Sylvia (which is alluded to in the chapter), Scandinavia, Baron von Haussman, red wine, or a sexabolical eagle bed. And while we're at it, we can throw in Harry Potter and a summer cabin in Maine.

* * *

The bombastic harmony of pipes reverberated on the water as Erik lifted his fingers from the organ's keys and jotted down some notation. It had been a fortnight since Christine's arrival, and in that time he had recuperated to his normally functioning state. Funny how a month and a half ago his life had felt final and nothing had been more desirable than to sleep eternally at the Angel's Well.

A whisper of gentle feet and sweeping dress hems filled the chamber. Ah! Those ivory feet he had once kissed so timidly! But everything was different now; Christine was with _him_, loved _him_. He could brush his lips upon her toes – or any other bit of her, for that matter – without fear of rejection. And Monsieur le Vicomte had yet to make his cavalier entrance. This hurt Erik for the sake of Christine's pride and simultaneously launched him into a fury that he had wasted away for a month while his Angel was with a scoundrel who would not even come to rescue her.

She now stood before him, shifting a parcel from arm to arm. Christine knew he was prone to these bouts of pensive recollection and therefore patiently set down the brown paper package and waited for Erik to surface.

When he did, he noticed her face was pale and drawn. Her hands fluttered helplessly and her lips were in constant, silent motion. He would ask later because now, in the midst of some internal conflict, she would not give a full explanation.

"How was Paris?" Funny how he asked so nonchalantly, when he had not seen the city above in a good two or three months.

"Lovely." Christine smiled, masking all tension in a conversation tone. Like the itch that must wait to be scratched at a more opportune time, this irked Erik so terrible that he had to look down at his hands and breathe deeply. This distrust must not get to him, or fidelity would never be an option. He was working so hard not to lose her again! She continued, "The month of April is magnificent in the parks and streets and shops."

If Paris was blossoming, Christine had already bloomed. She had cast off her whalebone stays as suggested by Erik, not just because it was hazardous to the developing child but also because of the fascination he found in her metamorphosis. Christine was not much rounder than when she had returned; yet a subtle pronouncement sharpened everyday.

"How goes the Haussman rebuilding project?"

"Nearing its end actually. Now that you mention it, that reminds me…" She came to sit beside him on the bench; he kissed her temple with no reluctance whatsoever.

"Reminds you of what?"

"The Opera ballet is putting on _Giselle_, and are announcing the production of a new ballet at the opening night."

The new recital struck his interest first. "New? Who is its composer?"

"Monsieur Delibes. Some nondescript Arcadian theme in three acts."

"Ah… where do they practice?"

Her lips parted in a grin as she pointed heavenward… or rather to the stage above their heads.

"Here! But—"

"Interesting to know life goes on in spite of you, eh?"

This comment stung a bit, but he laughed appreciatively and kneaded her upper arm. "Well, I expect you'll wish to see the performance. Have the queues formed yet?" At a nod from Christine he proceeded. "No matter. I can use my remaining power as leverage. Besides, those fools Andre and Firmin must learn they are still expected to pay my monthly salary."

Christine twined her fingers into her hair, twisting mechanically. This, he had learned, was a sign of deep thought, just as were curling up and biting nails while reading. He shifted fretfully. _What was she thinking?_

He pulled her to him with both arms firmly about her waist. "_Mon cher_, I worry for you. You look as though you've seen a ghost, or a de Chagny." She shuddered at his jest – a bad sign. "Perhaps you shouldn't go about alone anymore. One is sure to recall a beautiful woman." Hers was the kind of savage beauty commonplace in Scandinavia, but exotic to the French. Aside from the aesthetic pleasure in her face, she would be easily remembered for being with child, unsupervised in public. Though healthier, wearing no corset while pregnant was still quite avant-garde.

"Perhaps…" Christine began but then shook her head against Erik's chest. Such a simple touch aroused him, but his anxiety and fury mixed for the moment so that he intensely listened as she moved on to another topic. "I purchased your plaster, by the way. Why is it that you need it?"

Hm… this put him in a better mood. Definitely more pleasurable to keep his plans secret. He merely moved his hands up her torso.

She arched her back slightly, but otherwise did not give in. "You don't wish for me to know?"

He growled in frustration. He had to do some things if they were to get done at all. He guided her against the bench and kissed every visible inch of satin flesh. "Mm… interesting to know life goes on beneath your mind's workings, is it not?"

* * *

Erik was fully alive. He glanced gratefully at Christine beside him; in the past hours, she had resurrected him to the man he had been in the past. She still smelled of his scent and yet also of a perfume that could only pertain to Christine.

Her back against his chest rose and fell in deep sleep as he contentedly embraced her. After this ballet, he would find the boy and persuade him to release Christine. She no longer wore his ring; she lived and consensually loved Erik. The only foreseen conflict was proving the paternity of the child. Even if the imbecile had to wait and see the composer's dark hair and piercingly intelligent eyes in his heir, it mattered not. Then Erik would pay a priest and ask Christine to –

Oh, but then! Then, his dear Angel stirred and sobbed in dream aword that shattered all of his illusions.

"Raoul…" She mewed, almost begged, "Raoul!"

As if caught afire, Erik reeled half-naked away from the bed and staggered blindly into his library.

So she dreamt of the boy. Of course, she still loved him; how could Erik have been so ignorant? They must have been meeting and planning rendezvous when Christine went into the city. He merely wasted away in the Opera cellars, dead to the known world. Why had he thought he could tear apart the de Chagny marriage? And if the Angel of Music did not haunt Christine's slumber, how could he have a chance at all?

The Phantom of the Opera shakily poured a glass of his driest red wine and pulled the Poe anthology from its shelf.

_Funny how life went on in spite of you…_


	5. That went well, don't you think?

I actually enjoyed writing this chapter, which means YOU ought to enjoy reading it! But honestly, tell me what you think about it, m'dears.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own an office, Phantom of the Opera ((pout)), a top hat, a sexabolical frock coat, a monkey named Jack ((Pirates of the Caribbean allusion)), or a French bistro called Cassis. Although there is one by that name on 73rd and Columbus in Manhattan. Rather delicious crepes, wot!

* * *

Though early on a Monday morning, Mademoiselle Alouette happily sat taking dictation from her paymaster Monsieur Firmin. A comfortable desk job was far more desirable than the backbreaking work of a corps ballerina or any other more sordid career option.

Firmin, however, was so sullen that even his mustaches drooped in anguish. This young secretary was hopeless at shorthand. His current letter to M. Swarovski commissioning a new chandelier would be illegible. She was pretty enough beneath her copious rouge and mascara, but currently this had provided no satisfaction. Each time he brought Alouette home, Madame Firmin – that fat old toad – had stayed abed with a headache. Oh, how he hoped she'd soon contract gout and die.

And this ballet! It was a miserable comparison to the Opera's former glory. The truth was the managers could not find a suitable replacement for Christine Daaé. They'd presumed the Vicomte would let her opera career continue, but alas! Their patron was hardly the pushover fop they'd thought him to be.

In spite of all storminess within the office, Monsieur André swept in whistling the overture to _Giselle_.

"God, Gilles! Must you hum _that_ of all things?"

The shorter man jovially tossed his top hat so that it landed on the coat rack. Alouette whisked his morning coat away to a back room. "Thank you, m'dear," he acknowledged then turned to his colleague. "Why ever not? Reyer was rehearsing when I arrived."

Firmin slammed his palms on the desk, causing the secretary to jump as she reentered the chamber. "That is _precisely_ why! This is the darkest bit of my career since the junk business!"

André sighed; why did he even bother? "It will be fine. If not triumphant, at least our return will bring in some money. Half of Paris is queued at the ticket centers!"

Alouette was planted to the same spout she had found during Firmin's outburst. He now turned on her. "Oh, go outside, damn you!"

The secretary bustled out the office door, passing two figures as she went. One rapped on the frame and entered, followed by the other.

"What is it now?" Firmin raged, mustaches now up on end.

"Really, _mon ami_, these angry fits cannot be good for your health." André turned to the visitors. The taller one removed a wide brimmed hat, and the managers cowered behind their desk.

"How are you here?" Firmin hissed in a manner that translated to _'Aren't you supposed to be dead?'_

"It was rather easy, truly." Erik replied from behind an ink black dress mask. "I merely walked through the front door like anyone else."

André moaned and sank into a chair. Erik strode forward, causing both men to cringe.

"I have come to ask for use of Box Five on the ballet's opening night, and to remind you gentlemen that my status as one of the living demands a regular paycheque." Erik spoke in a level tone of voice. All emotion had fled him last night.

"Don't you realize your little show has cost us large sums of money?" Firmin howled.

Erik surprisingly did not raise his voice at this reference to his opus as though it were vaudeville. Instead he shrugged. "So you can't afford twenty thousand francs monthly. Pay me what you can spare until then. At that time, we'll resort back to the original deal."

André made a strangled noise in his throat and then caught a glimpse of the timid figure riding the wake of the Phantom's intense presence. "Monsieur, are you not going to announce your friend?"

"Ah yes." Erik rapidly swept to one side, spreading his cape cynically. The slightly raw timbre in his voice was the most emotion he'd shown thus far. "Allow me to present la Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny."

She flinched at his stress of her title and surname, as would a virgin first laid bare. Erik did not want her here; she was simply the back up plan should his eminence not gain the box seats. Christine had received the cold shoulder since this morning and could not understand why. Had she done something wrong? Or now that there was not fight for her heart, was she simply undesirable? All she knew was that Erik could not be reasoned with. She huddled into the cloak that he had moodily tossed her way upon waking; though not showing much at all, she did not want observing eyes to notice the slightest change to set alarms. Erik's scent clung to the cloak's fibers. What torment this was to stand inhaling him when he wanted nothing of her!

"Madame de Chagny!" Firmin's entire demeanor had changed. His facial hair even threatened to twitch into a grin. "What an honor it is!" He swept a bow. "Surely this is a sign you'll be rejoining the Opera soon. If your husband allows it of course." Both managers gave Erik the once-over, blatantly wondering why their patron was not here in his stead.

"Perhaps in a while." Christine answered. "I am taking time off for… my health." Erik, who was studying her from the corner of his eye, nodded that this was a sufficient excuse.

"Would you like us to take your coat, Madame?" André stuttered a bit belatedly. She demurred and burrowed further into its depths.

By now Firmin was positively glowing. He turned back to Erik with a smile. "Well, I believe some business has been settled today. Box Five will be reserved on the opening night."

Erik nodded. "Thank you. And the cost of it can be subtracted from this month's payment."

"Of course, Monsieur." The managers chorused.

"Good day, gentlemen." Erik smiled and exited behind Christine.

"That went well, don't you think?" André beamed at his business partner.

Firmin danced a short jig. "We have our diva back!"

* * *

It was just after the two returned from a makeshift celebratory luncheon at the upscale Bistro Cassis that a fist heavily pounded against their door. André raised an eyebrow at Firmin who announced, "Entrez."

In staggered a rather unkempt man. His eyes raced drunkenly behind a scruffy unshaved façade, and his hair was in great need of a trim and a shampoo. He leaned against their desk for balance, gifting the managers with the pungent odors of sweat and gin. A tattered navy frock coat draped over his gaunt frame. Firmin almost called for security to remove this vagrant when the familiar arrogant posture assaulted him in recognition.

"Vicomte!" Raoul's peers gasped collectively then realized it was best to pretend he was nothing out of the ordinary. André fought not to hold his nose.

"Afternoon, gentlemen." Raoul's voice was ragged with nuances of a severe chest cold beneath the surface. "I see Madame Giry is putting on _Giselle_ for Parisian entertainment."

"Why, yes she is." André nodded. "It is our resurrection from bankruptcy after the, erm… the Incident." He winced, hoping this hadn't been the event to push de Chagny over the edge. After all, he had won the girl's heart and hand. Shouldn't he be content?

"Well then," Raoul straightened as best he could, "I would like to reserve Box Five for the premiere viewing."

"The um- the – the premiere?" Firmin's face fell.

"Yes…" The young man grew impatient and gave both a frown.

"Unfortunately the box has already been reserved for that particular night's use." André piped up. "Perhaps Monsieur could view the ballet the subsequent evening?"

"Like Hell I will!" The Vicomte growled, making to lunge across the desk. André cowered behind Firmin, but Raoul then hiccupped, swayed, and seemed to recollect his bourgeois sense of propriety. He rummaged in his pockets and plunked down two heavy bags of gold. Judging by eyesight alone, the managers saw a bounty of wealth in their immediate future. This was a much better venture than the morning's as they would profit and not owe anyone a sou.

"We should expect you at eight then?" Firmin asked while scooping the bags from the wooden surface.

"Thank you." He spoke gruffly. "Monsieurs."

Monsieur le Vicomte was almost to the door with his hand stretched for the knob when curiosity got the better of him. "Who was it that had reserved Box Five?" He turned fiercely towards them. "It was my cousin the Baroness Eloisa d'Arles, wasn't it? That conniving bitch! She's always had it out for me."

"Actually, Vicomte," André cleared his throat, "it was… well, rather amusing and unbelievable, really. It was your wife and the Phantom of the Opera."

Raoul mouthed the last. Lines etched across his face, aging him a decade easily.

"Yes." Firmin added. "Quite noble of you to allow Christine to continue with him as her vocal tutor. It will be nice to have a principal soprano again after Carlotta Giudicelli fled to Rome. But to pay him to be alone with her, well! I commend you on the strength of your marriage bed, something I must say I know nothing about!" The managers shared a convivial laugh.

De Chagny froze for a moment, lost in thought. Reanimated a few minutes later, he nodded. "Indeed. Good day to you both."

His frock coat billowed in frayed patches behind him as he strode furiously out the door and hailed a cab for Montmartre where drink and warm flesh could ease the throbbing of his skull. _Christine… Christine…_


	6. Toujours

Sorry this took so bloody long to post. I've been in transit for most of the past weekend, so that means little time to write. Now I'm back home and I should be spitting chapters out in rapid fire mode… when I'm not doing AP Summer assignments… blargh.

I know the Raoul story is a bit in un-suspension of disbelief, but you know, this is a _fan fiction_ and they don't really have rules. I needed it to help the plot along. And it could be worse. I could have inserted myself into it as a disturbingly gorgeous yet helpless Mary Sue that Erik bangs thrice nightly.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Giselle _or _Sylvia_. Or Mozart. Again.

_**Wolfgang:** What, so I can leave then? **Me: **(sadly) If you must…_

Or Phantom of the Opera.

_**Erik:** Should I…? **Me: **No! Not you! (to reader) Enjoy the chapter! (to Erik) COME BAAAAACK!_

…see what I mean?

* * *

_Giselle _had been a part of Christine Daaé for as long as she'd been involved in Madame Giry's corps. It was the ballet produced her first year on Pointe. She was enamored by the haunting motions of the principals, but further more, she was obsessed with the story. Love to the point of madness… a commitment unbroken and eternal in the final _pas de deux_… these were themes she fervently championed and longed for. Of course, Christine had been positioned in the _derriere _ranks of Wilis that season and spent most of her stage time stationary. She felt jealousy; she felt failure. 

Christine remembered these moments while pressing against one side of a wall, her eyes staring through a grille at Box Five and the stage beyond. She shivered at the dampness inhabiting this passage, for a crimson gown clung to her shoulders, bodice, and legs but left her arms freezing and bare. Erik had brought the frock into the Louis Philippe chamber earlier this night, as that was where she convalesced from a nasty fortnight's bout of nausea. He had handled its satin material with far more attention than she'd received these two weeks past. Her Angel denied her desires in a hardly convincing yet determined shroud of bitterness. What had she done? She must have committed some great failure. And she was jealous once again. The heart of one's desire need not necessarily be taken for that shivering fear to rise. Erik stood behind her, warmth just out of reach, glaring daggers towards the one responsible for their position inside the hollow column of Box Five.

Raoul sat comfortably in Box Five. At least, his clean-shaven features and position atop a velvet chair exhibited comfort. But his chestnut ensemble hung loosely from his gaunt frame, and his eyes as they searched the audience were haunted. Christine was inwardly satisfied with his lack of composure. He was the reason she froze while waiting for the curtains to open, and she had the feeling he was somehow to blame for Erik's distance.

Induced by the noble's cocky presence, Erik's bitter, perplexingly pained voice breathed upon her neck. "Your husband may think he owns Box Five, but tonight as he enjoys it, I will enjoy the Vicomtesse."

This did not set fire to Christine whatsoever. She knew his gloved hands now caressing her waist were mechanical, merely an affront to the intolerable Vicomte.

The theatre abruptly roared beneath swells of applause. André and Firmin stepped past the downstage curtain, beaming like a pair of Cheshire cats.

"Welcome!" Firmin spread his arms to accompany his booming voice. "Welcome to the Opera Garnier's triumphant resurrection!" Beside him, André's eyes twitched spastically about the auditorium.

Erik chuckled darkly, his lips pressing against her shoulder. "The managers know I've returned as well. Look at André squirm!" His fingers massaged her breasts. Now Christine squirmed. Her mind rebelled against these sensations, but lacked the strength to combat her body. Her back arched to press her flesh more fully into his palms. She whimpered at the pulsing that filled her heart. Even should she pretend this would not be genuine fulfillment.

Raoul's head whipped towards the grille, nostrils flaring in his strained face. He studied the Box interior for a time but then turned back to Firmin who was announcing the construction of _Sylvia_, the new ballet, and praying everyone enjoy tonight's _Giselle_.

"Yes, groan for him to hear it." Erik cajoled, the breath from his bent head mingling in her décolletage. "You imagine I am he, of course."

Christine shook her head desperately, but the Angel was deaf to her denial.

In the thunderous applause that served as a prelude to the overture, Box Five's door opened. The face of the girl who entered was much older, more gauche (if possible) than the rest of her. With hardly a preamble, she sank below the balcony in front of Raoul's chair, proceeding to pleasure him in an act that penned her as a prostitute.

The overture played on. Christine choked on the rivers of salt running down her face. This adultery, this fellatio was not what disturbed her. Instead she wept selfishly for her loss; Erik no longer loved her, and she could not even return grudgingly to Raoul.

Erik pressed as close as he could, as if he had something to prove. Why was he so fervent if he was going to throw her out tomorrow? Raoul's escort hastily closed their curtains for more privacy. Erik whirled Christine to face him, to kiss her mouth.

He paused as the tears touched his lips. In the full absence of light, Christine had to imagine his sullen, grim mien. Erik sighed and in an instant held her in his arms, was storming down to the Lake with his cloak a thundercloud behind.

When he set Christine to her feet, she immediately collapsed, sobbing hysterically. Erik doffed his cloak and resignedly studied the mist hovering over the waters. "Do you cry because all is lost, Vicomtesse?"

Christine stumbled, crawling in her crimson gown to grip his leg. Erik swayed but did not appease her wish for his gaze in her eyes. "Of course all is lost! You don't love me anymore! I'd do anything for you to understand, but you cannot, will not." Her voice dropped into mourning.

Now he studied her face in silence, chewing the inside of his lip.

"Erik…" she shuddered.

"You'd do anything? I doubt that. How can you waste emotion on me and then cry out to the Vicomte at night?" His eyes threatened to spill into his questions.

Her brow smoothed in epiphany. Through a misunderstanding, she had unknowingly hurt her Angel! "No, Erik. That is not dream." She turned away. "That is a nightmare."

Erik's coattails swirled as he sat beside her. She had his attention. He removed his gloves, a sign that the truth must be told. "What nightmare?" His pupils searched before he asked.

"It is one of true events. After Raoul made me his wife, I supposed he would allow me to continue my career in the opera." She picked miserably at her hem. "Naturally he did not. The Vicomte will not let himself be overshadowed. But if I could sing to bring him glory… so I began performing in salons and at dinners."

His jaw clenched at the thought of her clear voice being bound in marital chains. Christine continued. "I hated it. One night I told him, and Raoul said I'd sing or there would be consequences. So I sang."

"What did you sing?"

She laughed silently: ever the musician. "_Voi Che Sapete_ from The Marriage of Figaro." Erik's eyes closed in pleasure. Was he finally weakening, softening towards her?

"As I sang, a handsome bachelor came smiling to stand by the piano. He was charming, so I smiled in return. But Raoul… Raoul saw us. He made me stay for the entirety of the salon, but he was different man when we returned home. He said he would not tolerate such behavior from his wife. Then he took the ceremonial sword from his belt and—"

Erik reached protectively for her front. "He didn't…?"

"He doesn't know." Christine's eyes were overflowing not from recollection but from this reconciliation. She lifted her tousled locks, undressed from the hasty toilette this evening, and displayed a nasty yellowing bruise behind her ear and a scab overlapping her hairline. "With the hilt." She lamely explained. Of course he had not know; the time they had been together since she returned, the chamber had been entirely dark, an understandable wish and habit of Erik's so he could comfortably remove the mask. She had expected him to see red or at least to continue his icy war of silence against her. But his look of absolute surrender, now with a nuance of concern, was apology enough so that when he enfolded her within his grasp, she merely settled against his heaving breast, harking to his harsh gasps, and continued.

"He returned begging on his knees for forgiveness. There were chocolates, new frocks, a holiday at the chateau. It seemed he was reformed completely, providing I did not wound his pride again. I would not have left him even after everything he did if I were not carrying your child."

This last comment stung, dredging up the last of Erik's resentful bitterness. He shifted beneath her, tensing. His throat cleared stertorously. "How do you know it's not his?"

Christine sat up and placed a hand on each side of her Angel's pale face, pulling it back to stare into those pleading eyes. "It cannot be. The Vicomte is… he is impotent. He told me on our wedding night."

This took a moment to comprehend. Erik chuckled under his breath.

She glared, removing him from her grasp. "It's not! Not funny!" But she hiccupped while condemning him. The situation was amusing, to be frank. Her estranged husband, last of the proud de Chagny line, unable to produce an heir.

His face was the clouds parting to let in the last shafts of warm sunlight before dusk. Their laughter echoed off of stone and water.

Erik again whisked her into his arms, dashing with abandon into the house on the Lake. He stopped rather dramatically in the library; it was only fitting that they make up in the chamber where his anger had steeped. Christine sprawled onto the divan and he followed suit. By all appearances, they must have resembled a pair of uneducated peasants after rolling through a field, chests heaving and clothing unkempt.

He paused tantalizingly close; she felt his panting slow against her neck. "Do you truly love me, Christine?" There was such desperation in his query. The world ceased spinning for him unless she was there. Death of the soul approached if she could not be with him, hear his voice and adore his faults.

_"Toujours."

* * *

_

Raoul had fought unceasingly to remove that noise from his head. The ballet had not helped distract his mind in the least. As a self-respecting gentleman, he loathed the art. One could not understand the storyline behind the fluttering girls prancing onstage. Eponia had not diverted his confusion either. When either of the pair released forcefully quiet in the darkness of curtained Box Five, he had to wonder if she would sound like the column had.

After _Giselle_ ended, he threw off his escort and headed doggedly for the managers' office. Behind the door, he found his colleagues counting the night's ticket sales. At least he would be in conspiracy with two who realized what was important.

They looked up expectantly and rather awed at his trembling visage.

"He is not tutoring her." Raoul moaned. He had once been a concerned husband. Now he just desired Christine so that she could be chastised correctly.

"Beg pardon?" André frowned.

"He is not tutoring her! Christine has left me for that monster." Apparently, when clean-shaven and sober, he was more convincing. "I don't know where to go except into madness. I've lost count of how many days I've searched Paris in its entirety for her. It is no use. She is nowhere but underground, in the Opera Ghost's lair."

"Well, if you know they are in the opera cellars, let us bring her back this evening." Firmin challenged. Money made a man brave.

All mawkish quality left his voice for something fiercer. "No!" He calmed a bit. "No. If we corner this snake, he'll attack. We must wait until we can coerce him out of his pit. You two listen and watch every inch of the theatre for a hint of appearance or departure. Then I shall spring and retrieve my errant wife."

So they had heard the rumors; both stood massaging their throats in absent horror.

"We will… notify you at the least pin drop." Firmin passed a palm over his brow.

"Thank you, gentlemen." Raoul left an address where he could be reached and remembered to swagger only once he entered the busy street. The whimpering passion had left his ears; like a tiger he could sleep, albeit with one eye open.


	7. I was just trying to be optimistic

I hope you will all enjoy this rather brief chapter (apologies, the next one will compensate as it will be quite long and take a while to write). Especially the Erik fans… he's called a brigand and described as doing roguish actions. So… yum.

Hopefully I'll get Chapter Eight out some time this week to appease you because I'll be on holiday from 18 August to 26 August.

Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own a spiffy frock coat, or a cravat, or pirate boots of sweetness-osity (ha-ha, Meg), or Erik's wardrobe (which would be kind of nice to share, though I might raid Christine's from time to time), or Phantom. I do own some sexabolical avatars via Which I don't own either. But the avatars… oh yeah.

**_.o.O.o._**

_Three weeks after _Giselle.

"He has scheduled an _appointment_?" Firmin highly expected the floor to drop out from under him next.

André plucked fretfully at his cravat. "That's what Alouette told me."

The other manager was so incredulous that he did not ask when his mistress-cum-secretary had spoken to André in depth. "Impossible!"

"Perfect!" André beamed. "Shall we send for a constable? The brigand will be caught in an unbreakable snare!"

Firmin's moustaches fluffed once as he glowered. "That is the wrong way to go about it for at least three reasons." André stood to protest, but his colleague continued. "One, I have a hunch the Vicomte would be furious if he were not the man to trap the Ghost. Two, we both know what happened the last time that devil was cornered; he must be taken unawares. And three, were we to capture him, we could only _assume_, and nothing more, that the Vicomtesse remains in the cellars."

"Oh." André frowned, sat back and studied his clasped hands.

"Yes, _'oh'_." Firmin folded his arms.

"I was just trying to be optimistic."

"Well, don't! Optimism will get you nowhere in this cat and mouse business!"

A brief, measured rap came from the door.

André fully straightened now to express his vigilance and fear. "It's him."

Firmin glared, hoping to instill the other man with a bit of courage. "_Entrez_," he commanded.

Erik swept into the office, seeming for the most part oblivious to his managers' earlier machinations. "_Bonjour_, gentlemen." He perched gracefully atop a chair.

"_Bonjour._" They echoed.

"May I offer a drink, monsieur?" Firmin asked. Erik formally declined. "No? Then we shall get straight to it. What business do you call for today?"

The Phantom's smile stretched in a not unpleasant way across his face. "Might I remind you, gentlemen, that I have yet to receive my salary." His lilting voice granted the accusation a harmless air. He propped his boots roguishly upon the desk. "If it were just me to sit and rot, I wouldn't really mind. But," Erik shrugged, "there is a female companion. And as you did so well packing the house last month…"

André paled. "You were there?"

"I was, but that is beside the point." He stood fluidly and set to pacing. "I require money, not only to survive but to enjoy existence. I want to take Christine" the name was brashly, fearlessly savored in his mouth, "for strolls on Sunday afternoons. I want to be a creature of society for once."

Firmin spread his arms akimbo. "What is your price?"

Erik humored them with the ruse of pondering this question. "I requested whatever coin you could spare, but since you have been…resurrected, as it were… I think twenty-five thousand francs should suffice."

Firmin's moustaches stood to vigorous attention. "Twenty-five thousand--?"

André placed a cautionary hand on Firmin's shoulder and with the other one searched blindly for his chequebook and pen. In an instant the slip of paper had changed owners.

Erik secreted it into one of his inky waistcoat's pockets. "Thank you, gentlemen." He swaggered out of the office like either a drunk or a man in love.

The managers were ensorcelled with lips of stone until the Opera Ghost's footsteps faded down the corridor.

"Strolls on Sunday afternoons?" André murmured.

"I suppose so," Firmin responded, lips twitching. "Give the messenger boy a handful of sous to fetch the Vicomte."

**_.o.O.o._**

It was absolutely perfect. Every contour was human, ordinary, and ordinary was not necessarily a sin. Also, his long-unused narcissism had to admit he was rather dashing as a normal man.

The base of plaster had been blended to match his face's hue. It was molded in a thin layer so that it moved with him, to an extent. He had painstakingly crafted a brow from clippings of his hair. This was no longer a source for misanthropy or a handicap. This mask now connected him to the mortal coil that shuffled about the Champs Elysees. Erik did not have to pronounce himself an ephemeral haunt any longer, and he was the Angel of Music by choice alone.

He studied his masterpiece in euphoric bliss. This moment of completion was a new plot emerging in his tale. The stage would open now, at Christine's daily lesson.

Mirrors gilded his way to the organ. The fact that he no longer cringed at the penance of reflection was signal enough that fears were far behind him.


	8. I cannot live without you

Okay, well… I hope this appeases you guys. I'll be on holiday writing tons more. Don't you love that I think of others first? _((cheery happy dandelions))_

I don't know if the Jardin des Tuileries is how I described it, but uh… sorry! I'm trying! If Phantom of the Opera took place in London, it would be nicer because I've been there!

Erik is OOC a lot during this chapter, but it gets darker towards the end. So just chill and read it!

This is also the chapter with a plethora of page breaks. Just a heads-up.

How 'bout this… **CLAIMER! **I own… a costume to be Christine at my friend and my up-and-coming Halloween masquerade! Sounds far away, but it's not!

**_.o.O.o._**

The notes ascended in a silver scale. Erik anxiously watched Christine as does an actor wait in the wings at a premiere. Would she appreciate his effort or see it as a miserable attempt at humanity?

He shoved these demeaning quandaries to the back of his mind and approached her silently. Her aria halted abruptly as his arms found her waist. "Oh…_ Mon Dieu_!" She gasped in alarm.

He frowned at her reaction, but nothing would ruin today's joviality, even if it was out of character for him. Her ear was warm from blushing. "Yes, but you may call me Erik." He caressed her now showing belly. Christine laughed and turned in his embrace.

Her laughter became something more desirable as she slipped into silent awe. He tightened his hold on her waist, remembering that the last time she'd exhibited this expression was when he had revealed her bridal dress and induced a fainting spell. She seemed steady enough though, and stepped back to study his face further. There was a light in her eyes that coursed joy unadulterated throughout him.

"Erik…" She murmured, drawing his face towards hers.

"You sing beautifully, _Cherie_." Erik breathed after breaking the kiss. "I'm not certain I'm needed anymore."

Christine was bent on using her eyes as communication, for now the aquamarine orbs showed profoundly somber loyalty. He desired to break both the silence and severe mood. Toying with her small hands, he continued. "Needed or no, I propose that we skive off lessons today. If milady would accompany me to Paris above, I would promise an enchanting time."

She bobbed a curtsey. His spell had lifted the curse. "And I would be honored." Together they exited the opera house, emerging in the light of day where secrets could not be stifled.

**_.o.O.o._**

Late May abandoned the stale smell of rain to leave sultry traces of lavender on the air. Men in top hats strolled the pavements of Paris to the outside of their wives and lovers who admired expensive frocks in lead glass windows. In every park, humans walked two by two beside the ponds. Christine slipped her hand into the crook of Erik's arm as they glided among the trees in the Jardin des Tuileries.

"What a glorious day to be breathing!" Erik exclaimed.

"Really?" Christine quirked her brow. "I was surprised you didn't turn to stone upon entering the street."

"Yes," he whispered in her ear, "I have brought you into the open air that you might see it one last time before you are also a Creature of the Night." He playfully mocked biting her neck as she recoiled in burlesque horror.

All maturity was lost as Christine fled, squealing girlishly, towards a low brick wall. Her damask bottle green frock trailed the ground, dirtied its hem. Erik gave chase while his hat lay abandoned further afield.

"Aha!" He cried. One tug and her precarious balance surrendered to the seduction of his arms. Erik sprawled on the dewy grass, Christine joining him a bit stiffly moments later. Their chests heaved with laughter. The local vicinity was silent but for them as everyone else gawked mercilessly. Of course, it was not every day Parisians saw two presumably wedded adults give chase in a park.

Erik leaned over to Christine, gathering her towards him. "Perhaps we should go somewhere a bit more private?" This only provoked peals of laughter. He snarled comically and swung her back into his arms, ignoring the forbidding stares they received left and right and leaving his hat battered on the ground.

**_.o.O.o._**

The climbing heat without was easily forgotten as they slipped into the welcome coolness of a nearby church. It was rather antediluvian and dilapidated, but over its dusty altar a crucifix of burnished gold loomed down. It was blatant where the parishioners' tithes went, though Erik could not complain when his eyes snagged on a deliciously gargantuan pipe organ.

"Christine." He gripped her hand once, motioning to follow, and trotted up the stair to the organist's alcove.

He had already begun playing when her footsteps whispered up to his side. Erik did not look at her; he found that if helped him play to close his eyes and surrender to the instrument. Music flowed through him, a music that ascended and flew from the shoddy steeple. It was above this imperfect world and the music's imperfect creator. It freed whoever harkened and understood. The music was love.

The last bar echoed into the cavernous sanctuary and was swallowed. Erik slowly opened his eyes, allowed the panic he had been anticipating to flood in.

Christine serenely lit onto the bench. "That was… breathtakingly perfect." She breathed. "What is this one for?"

A hole cracked into the dam, and anxiety seeped in, drip by drip. He took her hands; the best way to do this was to reveal all quickly. "That is the first movement of our wedding mass."

"Erik…" Her face contorted in emotional conflict. The waters of uncertainty flowed in with dark certainty.

"Christine! Christine, I cannot live without you. If I were the Vicomte now, I'd be buried in my best coat. And speaking of de Chagny, he seems to be a sensible man, or at least one that can be bought off easily." His angel gave a valiant effort towards smiling and succeeded in creasing her brow. Erik's mirrored hers in pain. "I want to sit down and talk to him. Christine, I love you. Please, if you love me, say you'll be my wife."

Her mouth opened to save or drown him when heavy paces approached.

"Monsieur, monsieur!" A man of cloth hastened forth, panting. "_Pardonnez-moi_, monsieur, but this organ is not for public use!"

"Apologies, Reverend." Erik stood, bidding the man to quail for fear of being struck.

"I-I'm afraid I must ask you to leave." A shaking finger directed the route of departure.

Erik made a last cynical genuflection and crossed himself, wondering if the Vicomte de Chagny attended here in this shrine to golden monuments.

_**.o.O.o.**_

He would never have survived the day of chastising glares and rigorous etiquette without her. Had he been alone, Erik would have felt the mask marking him as an outsider, but now, in the glare of a streetlamp outside the café, he was whole. Christine kissed his mouth, the sweet aftertaste lingering and warming the plaster as though it were his cheek. She had not yet answered his proposal, but that did not matter now as he pulled her into the shadowy spring night.

He found her lips again. The air of the alley was perfumed with wine and cooking spices. His arms gently trapped her against the wall. Her warm flesh throbbed against his. "Ah… _je t'adore, Mon ange._" Erik groaned as her hands traveled to a most arousing spot.

Suddenly, Christine tensed. She had the sense of a trapped doe about her, and her wide eyes trained on an object in the middle distance. Erik's puzzlement adapted with clarity as a voice sounded behind him.

"Well, well… this is indeed an unparalleled delight." The voice was mocking, adopting Erik's words from February. There had only been three people to hear that: Erik, Christine, and…

"Raoul," Christine began with a warning tone as her protector turned to face the challenger.

The Vicomte was in shadow as he studied her, but his voice betrayed contempt. "IS it not enough that you sin against our marriage bed with this monster of the Labyrinth? You must carry his bastard as well?" Christine shrank against the wall, willing the night to disappear.

Erik chuckled in amusement. "You think yourself Theseus?" He stepped forward, hands held up peacefully. "Theseus put his stakes on brute force. I wish to speak to an intellectual."

"I am not here to exchange pleasantries with a devil, unfortunately." There was the sound of metal scraping metal as a blade glinted in the half-light. "I am here to win my wife back."

_Merde._ He should have brought his sword and hidden it in his cloak. Or at least a length of rope. Why had he lied to himself? Erik was well on the way to a blind rage without a weapon. "You dare speak of Christine as a prize to be won?" He advanced within a meter of the boy, aware that this probably was not the best idea whilst unarmed.

Raoul swiped at his face and rather cleanly clove the mask in twain. Erik paid no heed and reached towards the Vicomte's neck, only to be dealt another cut on his forearm.

"Erik!" Christine shrieked, propelling herself between the two men. Her hands shook as they brushed his copiously bleeding wounds.

"Get away from him, Christine." Raoul snarled. "That monster doesn't deserve a name."

She stood her ground, eyes welling and hands caressing his face.

"I said get away from him, you bitch!"

A fist hammered into her belly and shattered Erik's sense of gravity. Her mouth gaped in shock and pain, and she clutched herself with bloodstained hands as she fell. On the filthy cobbles, she shuddered uncontrollably and then lay still.

"Christine!" Erik screamed. He rushed to her side, but Raoul was quicker.

The Vicomte tossed his rapier to a pile of rubbish and sank beside the unconscious girl. He had put on his costume and transformed into a concerned husband. "It would be best if you left." His voice was tinged with grief, his breath with something stronger.

Fear for Christine's well-being forced him to exit. He could not let the Vicomte hurt her again, and at the moment Erik's presence heightened the risk.

Erik backed out of the alley, tripping over a wine bottle. He fell before two of the café's customers, causing the woman to howl at the sight of his bloody, distorted face. "_Le diable!_"

Her husband glared at Erik's ungraceful attempt to stand. "My God, get out of here, you perversion."

Erik fled blindly for the Rue Scribe and the comfort of his lair. The tears stung as they mingled with his blood, reminding him that his world held no comfort if Christine was not in it. He was a perversion. He did not deserve a name. He was not even an angel, for seraphs have names. He was the night, and the night fades without the presence of stars.


	9. I must see her

So I was in Myrtle Beach for a week and spit out two chapters. The second one will be up shortly, m'dears! Shortly meaning whenever I get to it.

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Phantom of the Opera nor Series of Unfortunate Events to which the first paragraph gives an alluding alliteration.

**_.o.O.o._**

The last time Erik was abandoned he had been helpless to protect his heart out of love for Christine and respect for her decision. At present, his passion demanded action that could hardly be accomplished. He should free her from the volatile Vicomte, but there was no telling where she was. If still alive – that blow had cost her a great deal of pain – Erik could not even guarantee that she remained in Paris.

For two days he paced the lair like a caged lion: his every step reminded him of his oppression, angered him, and did nothing to ameliorate his wounds …the emotional ones anyway; de Chagny's attacks had absently been patched with old rags. He had discarded the mask, blaming his foolish desires to be human for everything that had happened. At any rate, the caged beast in him jotted a mental note never to visit a menagerie again. In those forty-eight hours his mind hovered on the brink of loneliness, the blade burrowing all the deeper as he yearned for a certain companion.

His saving grace came at noon the third day. Erik was eyeing his battered organ, deciding whether a bombastic dirge or simple minor violin concerto was best to accompany a funeral procession, when music overly pleasant for his current trauma boomed down from the ceiling. Some crumbling bricks rippled into the Lake.

Ah, the opera, yet proceeding with life, no cares for its _premier connoisseur. _In fact, he cocked his head to hear better, this overture was that of a show with an exquisite ballet. The smart click of toe blocks came to mind, a sound recalling happier days when he'd privately tutored Christine the ballerina in her dressing chamber. Images of the girl flooded in: Christine stretching during an _adagio_, Christine whispering conspiratorially with Meg, Christine receiving correction from Madame Giry…

_Giry!_ She had been like a mother to his Christine! If anyone knew where she was secreted, it would be the ballet mistress. He cast a forlorn glance towards his stationery. A note would consume far too much of his invaluable time. Erik might be a caged lion, but Christine's captivity was far more desperate. Sighing, he threw on fresh clothing and headed upstairs.

**_.o.O.o._**

Erik stood in the cool shadows of the wings for a quarter-hour before realizing his presence wasn't all that eminent. Finally, he took matters into his own hands by raucously clearing his throat. Giry raised a quizzical eyebrow towards the dimness but remained hard-pressed to leave her dancers, forcing him to enter the gaslight haze.

A clarinet hit an unsavory note. The entire ballet corps let out one histrionic gasp. It was nice to be remembered.

"Erik?" The ballet mistress now spent no time in hastening to his side. "What are you doing here?" Her eyes noted every line marring his already ruined face.

He swayed uneasily. "Christine." There was meant to be more, his mind insisted, but the speech died, unworthy words to be near her name. Giry, as always, knew the opera gossip, and his meager utterance was sufficient for her understanding.

"Erik," she reached towards him, faltered halfway, "perhaps it is best that you merely forget about her."

"No." He did not mean to sound so juvenile. "I cannot forget about her. I must see her."

The woman was severe wrapped in her ashy muslins; she thoroughly ignored his last declaration. "She is with the Vicomte now. The opera house has received enough attention from the papers lately. I won't let you be the straw that destroys us."

His fevered brain fought against the palpitating onslaughts his heart gave as it sought to climb his throat. "Where has he taken her? Please, Madame, for an old friend's health."

The slight woman pierced him with her icy stare. "Monsieur, you are interrupting my rehearsal with senseless distractions. Please clear the stage."

With his cape sweeping over the floorboards, Erik sprang from the stage, crossed the orchestra pit, and settled uneasily in the audience. His head throbbed under the burden of it all. He had to see Christine, obviously; she was his life and blood. But his oldest friend would not aid him for fear of betraying the Opera Garnier. Yet, this was his home; should he not fight for it as well? And he loved Christine, did he not?

The jewel tones of taffeta blurred until the stage was awash with swirling aquamarine mists. Erik let his tears loose their chains. He was weeping openly now, and it did not matter. In truth he was alone again, this time possibly for good. Salty rivulets crowded behind his mask and flooded onto his lapel. None of the pressure on his heart subsided.

He stood as the piece ended, feeling every one of his years. Where could he turn now? Back to the Lake was the reasonable answer, so he hoisted himself back onto the platform to disappear behind an upstage passageway.

Erik had gone a few paces into the wings when a small hand touched his now sodden shoulder. He whirled about, causing the little Giry to recoil. Meg was garbed with a florid leotard and tutu. A tiara dotted with faux diamonds sat atop her golden chignon. Evidently she played the principal role.

"Yes?" He managed. It was as though he were speaking to a faerie queen.

Without preamble she handed him a slip of paper. "Raoul has her at their Paris apartments. This is the address. He gave it to me should I wish to visit Christine, but you need it more than I."

She gave a grim nod and was out in the stage lights before Erik could express his gratitude. This was probably for the best as Madame Giry was highly protective of her only child.

He looked down at the folded calling card in his hand. Unlike Meg, he could not walk in and request a visit. He demanded something more.

But yes, _mais oui_, he would call.


	10. Angel

Here's Chapter Ten! Only two more after this! Kind of depressing, I suppose, but you will enjoy it.

For future reference, a Jezebel is a wicked woman who meddles and ruins others' affairs. It alludes to the Queen Jezebel of the Old Testament. FYI.

**Disclaimer:** Nope. Still don't own it.

**_.o.O.o._**

For the first time in a long while Erik retrieved his feeling of omnipotence. He was a shadow on the seemingly domestic night, perched on a broad outside sill, exposed to the driving rain. A hack rattled by three stories below; he grinned at his aptitude for concealment.

The grin vanished as he turned to the window. After much searching, he had found Christine's chambers. He now looked in on her bedridden state. She lay pliant beneath the counterpane, hair spilling over the pillow. Her eyes were closed and her breathing shallow. If not for this last, she would have been the very image of a corpse laid out for its wake, one fragile hand posed over her breast. Its mate was encased between the palms of none other but the Vicomte. His fair face was blotched with the anger of tears. The cur was a brilliant actor, for his brow was contorted in some inner, if nonexistent, contemplation.

Something about the scene was wrong. Christine was alive but unconscious, so her assent to Raoul's affection was excusable. Perhaps it was just the positioning of the quilts, but she looked somehow spent, empty.

The door latch turned, and de Chagny wearily lifted his head to acknowledge the doctor's presence. A severe man, the physician bent his aquiline nose once and set to work. He pulled back the sheets, and Erik sagged against the wall.

Christine's bedclothes swallowed her whole. Any maternal softness had disappeared, replaced by sickly jagged angles. His child was gone. His child was dead before life had begun, lying in a putrid alley somewhere. The full weight of this hit Erik without remorse. He could have been a father, responsible for another being that would not run from his face. For another being who might love him.

He slumped close to the window for several moments, mourning the unborn child and raging that these two men should move their hands over Christine while he was helpless to help her. If only she would open her eyes, then he would know that she was well, that there was hope.

When he surfaced to the rain drumming against the windowpanes, the chamber was dimmed. Monsieurs le Vicomte and le Docteur had vanished, and the bed curtains denied Erik a last look at his Christine.

He plunged again into the torrential darkness, one thought haunting his mind: _The life still there, upon her hair -the death upon her eyes._

**_.o.O.o._**

By the next evening, storm clouds had fled north, chased by a humid southerly wind. The window had been opened onto the night in a futile attempt to cool the chamber. It had another use though, one that fit Erik's agenda: he could now hear and understand more.

Christine must have been revived some time earlier in the day, for she was propped against a fleet of eiderdown pillows. The hawkeyed doctor examined her pupils and throat while Raoul's thumbs traced circles on her delicate hand. Erik redefined masochism as he forced himself to stay and watch.

"She will fully recover." The doctor packed away his stethoscope. "Just make sure Madame la Vicomtesse receives plenty of rest."

Raoul tenderly kissed her hand. "Ah, I am merely thankful that you are alive, _mon amour_. If only we could say as much for our son." Erik's heart lifted infinitesimally as Christine's visage blushed in anger. She opened her mouth to protest the child ever being Raoul's, but he placed a finger against her lips.

The doctor waved his farewell. Christine turned away from Raoul's touch. He caressed her hand again but froze in realization.

"_Cherie_, where is your ring?"

"I removed it when I was with Erik. The sight of it pained him, understandably."

Erik knew the tender scene was too good to be true. Raoul's jaw tightened and a pulse throbbed at his temple. When he spoke, his voice was so dangerously low that Christine edged away from him. "Why should you care what pains Monsieur le Fantôme? You are mine, Little Lotte. That was established the day we said our vows." His hand closed viselike on her pallid arm. "Do not dare move away from me."

She bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain. "Raoul, why can you not treat me fondly when we are alone? I would not cower then."

He flung her arm away and stood fluidly. "I can treat you how I damn well please after what you've put me through. Every newspaper is slurring my good name on account of you, dear Jezebel." His boot scuffed the wall. "But you've had your fun now, haven't you? Now I must clean up after you, must use good money to explain how you were kidnapped and tragically miscarried my child."

Christine's eyes glittered dangerously. "It was not yours! You cannot give me children! And I saw you with your filthy whore the night of the ballet, parading her about the opera house just because you could!" Her voice grew brittle. "Your chances of making me happy are ruined, Raoul. Now I must be yours until I rot, which unfortunately will not be soon."

Raoul thrust forward his chest, shoulders back haughtily. "You will come with me tomorrow to retrieve your ring. Then you will watch as I destroy your wretched Opera Ghost."

Fear entered Christine's voice. "No!"

"Do not undermine me!" He bellowed. In an instant of fury, his hand drew back and struck her jaw. Christine flopped miserably against her pillows. Erik reeled as though he had been struck in her stead.

Raoul staggered backwards, slumping on the wall as his wife softly wept. The blood dropping from her lips dually drained from his face, and his breath was harsh. He stared dumbly at his hands. "What have I done?" The Vicomte whispered. There was silence but for his steps as he fled the chamber, but for Christine's taciturn sobs.

Erik felt nauseous. Tomorrow would be his end. Perhaps that was best. Without bad publicity, the Opera Garnier would thrive. And yet Christine would remain storm tossed in the midst of a terrible marriage. It hardly seemed fair that he should get off so easily.

At that moment he happened to glance down at the open window. Yes, he could deliver her from these chains in an instant, but could they survive the descent? Erik steeled himself; it was a necessary chance. He breathed deeply and entered the room.

His footsteps ceased her crying. "Who's there?" Christine's raw voice called. It pained him that her lovely song would take weeks to heal.

He swept her off the mattress and into his arms. "Christine."

Her breath quickened with joy and released his pathos through one word. "Angel." She quaked once and fainted against his welcoming chest.

**_.o.O.o._**

In the early hours, one of France's young nobility entered his wife's chambers to find the window sash flung wide and the bed empty.

In the early hours, a carriage containing a mysterious figure, his sleeping companion, and several trunks passed through the gates of Paris and journeyed through northern France.


	11. That is the problem

I just realized what my version of Raoul reminded me of: the triumphant and Rabelaisian return of Commodore Norrington in PotC2. Oh my God…

Oh. And Shakespeare said, "If music be the food of love, play on." Gotta love Will. : )

**Disclaimer:** I own ballet shoes but no longer dance, I wrote the character of a pirate for a while so I own one of those but not the POTC franchise, I don't own William Shakespeare or property in Britain ((sadness)), and I definitely do not own Phantom of the Opera. Except for Erik who lives under my house.

_**.o.O.o.**_

_Perros-Guirec on the northwest coasts of France._

It gladdened Erik's heart to see Christine recovering so well in the salt air. That was all he asked for: that his Angel could be protected from the world. And yet his heart ached when he realized his obligation to protect her from himself.

The Opera Garnier seethed with superstition and consequent loss of money. Unfounded headlines gushed into the papers, leaking tales of a masked man, even while Erik was on holiday. These rumors amused him until he wondered if the media understood what ruin they contributed to the Parisian arts. Should the managers go into bankruptcy from lack of patrons, he would not mind. An abandoned theatre was still prime real estate for a hermit, though he could hardly envision Christine living amongst cobwebs and grime. She deserved silks and brocades, which led him to a heartbreaking predicament. Erik could not move away from the opera house. It was his sanctuary; he even felt himself despairing in this coast town. On the other hand, Christine could not stay with him if the Garnier went under. Perhaps her crystalline voice would save it. Perhaps his love would stand beside him and dispel the fears of the populace, return it to the boxes it fondly inhabited, but he could not force vocal lessons on her still pressured mind.

His mind faced no more relief. Christine had once confessed that she would not have left the Vicomte if she had not been carrying Erik's child. Did her opinion remain the same? Was he even now unbearable to see and touch since there no longer existed a life that deserved to know its sire? He could not think of himself as a man. He was a hellish monster that by some mistake in the Grand Scheme had developed a taste for love. To protect Christine, he must cage that love.

Wearing a mask and playing lachrymose violin solos, he spent his waking hours recoiling from the glow of her renewed vitality. She belonged to the Vicomte and to the sunlight. She should be on a pedestal. She could not love a phantasm. For these reasons, he denied his urges to embrace her.

His heart wept.

_**.o.O.o.**_

The muck on the lake floor gave way to cloudier depths. Raoul paddled through the paths, obstinately keeping his head above water. His memory of near drowning did not encourage plunging into the mold and grasses.

One wrong turn and a half-hour later, he sloshed through the shallows and looked warily up at the organ platform. The moss on the lower steps slid against his waterlogged boots. The Vicomte collapsed prostrate on the flagstones. He longed to stay there, to rest his fevered brain against the coolness, but he needed to reach his goal… if only he could remember what that was.

Raoul stood, regaining enough air to gasp, "Where are you, Phantom? Where are you hiding her?" He limped throughout the cavernous lair. The only sound was water dripping through fissures.

He began to despair when the chime of tiny cymbals rang in the stillness. Christine had told him of the Persian monkey! It had been the first thing to greet her upon waking after the gala night. There was a moment of fear in his heart, as though he had just stepped from a balmy pub into an icy torrent. Did she love this… _Erik_? She always defended him, and a soft gleam entered her eye upon mention of the Opera Ghost. If so, what was he doing here? Quelling rumors, that was what. Nothing he invested in would be destroyed; his pride was too vicious for that. Raoul was here for the glory in music to survive under his name. And, of course, for Christine, but how much could he care for her if he was a failure?

Who said "If music be the food of love, play on"? Was it Racine? One of those writers… he was not conscious enough to remember. As he slumped beside the music box, his hand struck something delicate. Parchment bruised beneath his fingers. Raoul lifted his head, ensorcelled by this note.

_Monsieur le Vicomte:_

_I've no idea why I am writing this to you. I am neither a kidnapper nor a man who cares for your health._

_You may find your ring in a chest in the Louis-Philippe chamber. _

_Christine and I have moved house for a brief time. We both have many anxieties to sort out, as do you. Below is an address where we may be reached. We must converse once you arrive._

_I will say one thing more, for you to ponder on your journey. I love your wife. I have been devoted to her since she first called my name in the darkness. I would give my life to shelter her, even if that means returning her to--_

The letter left off there, but a hastily scribbled and watermarked address was posted below.

_**.o.O.o.**_

Christine Daaé had been abandoned over time, her entire life. Her father, the Vicomte at a time when she cared, and now Erik. He was out of her grasp, though lying mere feet away. She strove to distract herself from the truth during daylight, but at the sun's nadir his indifferent breathing awakened her darkest suspicions.

Upon reaching the inn, Erik had attempted to procure separate, though adjacent, chambers. The master of the house declined, stating that his establishment was brimming over with guests and would not tolerate this stubborn chastity. Only Erik's deep change purse had delivered them into the vast presidential suite. For once, Christine cursed wealth and wished for nothing more than a pallet so small that she had to sleep atop him.

She sat awake, wondering what had frozen Erik's heart. Surely he did not suppose Raoul had won her back? Erik would not have taken her from the room that night if he did not believe the Vicomte's assaults to be veritable.

Christine battled it, but the hand crept to her vacant abdomen on its own. Was his distance spawned from the death of the child? A shiver of fear tickled her spine. Did he hate her now that his progeny was miscarried? Worse, did he think she was glad it was gone? That she had considered it an incubus? She bit her lip until it bled. Pain kept her sound, pain she needed to feel.

Erik shifted on the eiderdown. He had to be uncomfortable, wearing the mask to bed as had become his habit. This in turn made Christine uncomfortable; he refused to be intimate with her even in that aspect. It was as though he tried to erase himself from her life bit by bit with little or no remorse.

"Christine," he murmured. She started, thinking he was addressing her. A long pause proved this to be false; Erik spoke in dream. "Christine, you must sing for the Opera. You're the only one who will grant peace."

Was this what he had been holding back? She almost laughed at the simplicity of it. He had missed her voice, and by all means, he would hear it again.

"Erik?"

He grunted, finally awake.

"I love you." She reached for his hand, but he flinched away. Her voice sadly attempted to muffle the tears dancing across the pillow. "Do you still love me, _mon ange?_"

There was another silence.

"Yes. That is the problem."

He turned onto his side as Christine's brief euphoria sank back below the tide. No one was awake to witness her seclusion.

_**.o.O.o.**_

Firmin unfurled a newspaper while André reclined in a chair, conducting an invisible symphony. Needless to say it was a slow day.

The door flung wide open and banged against a wall. Firmin split the paper in twain and André dropped straight to his rump.

A ragged, sodden Vicomte stood before them. He paused momentarily, chest heaving, not long enough for either manager to speak. "Christine… he took her again! S'all right, I have this!" Raoul plunked a soggy note onto the table; it began oozing immediately. "They're in Brittany, I'll bring her back, I just need you to keep this away from the journalists. It could ruin us. _Merci._" There was one last gasp, and he headed for the corridor.

"De Chagny." Firmin's tone did not savor of sympathy. The young man ground to a halt against the doorframe. "Speaking of our ruin…" Raoul spun to face them.

André cleared his throat. "…perhaps you should shut the door, dear Vicomte."

_**.o.O.o.**_

She stood before the North Sea, waves biting her toes. Her last note faded under its roar. There had been a time when she could climb scale after scale and still carry over the untamed surf.

Christine folded her arms and set to pacing. Why was the Opera's fate on her shoulders? She was beginning to tire of chivalrous men sparring over her. If she could not sing for a few weeks, mayhap she could dance instead. All that was needed for everyone's mutual happiness was unification; that could be done as a member of the corps. It _had_ been awhile… but anything to get back in Erik's arms.

She began to stretch and tied her skirts about her thighs. An elderly couple strolling the strand glared at her audacity. Christine glared back and brazenly set into a passé. Pulsing up to relevé, she motioned a smart chasse and kicked into a tourjeté. Upon landing, her ankle rolled and she collapsed on the gritty shore. The Vicomtesse de Chagny sobbed angrily. Not only was she still weak from the miscarriage, but she had disgraced herself because of it. One sure thing was that the managers would not listen to her opinions; they thought her mad. Perhaps she was.

Christine scanned the grey horizon. This was where her father had taken her on childhood holidays. This was where she had first met Raoul. If the younger Christine had known what nightmares would be birthed from their introduction, would she have fled? The day he had retrieved her scarf, frigid waters pounded upon the rocks. Today, they were calm… inviting.

Her skirts unpinned and flowed about her, a cloud of burgundy velvet. She did not realize she was drowning until she looked back to shore. The pebbled beach was too far for her benumbed legs to swim. A wave slammed against her head, forced her under. Suddenly, Oblivion did not seem the best option.

Christine surfaced, choking on brine. Her eyes blurred on what could only be described as an illusion. A figure seemed to be vaulting from its mount and dashing for the water. It keened her name across the scape. That voice… quite familiar… it was Raoul! She did not have the luxury of wondering how he had found her, for in the instant that the young man dove through the foam, Erik sprinted from the inn yard onto the beach. He stripped from his coat and goaded Raoul's stallion toward the watermark.

"Christi—" Erik's stertorous bellowing did not reach past the breakers.

A sinewy pair of arms rippled around her waist. Raoul's face swam above hers; Christine thrashed to no effect. "Erik. I need Erik!" When no sound touched her lips, she grew exhausted from lack of success and flopped back onto the Vicomte, curls dripping diamonds.

There was a brief moment of clarity. She sprawled supine upon the unhappy bed. A crackling hearth threw shadows over two bereaved faces. Raoul laid a firm hand on Erik's hunched shoulder; they departed. Then there existed naught but black and silence.


	12. You are not alone

Here we are at last, at the End of All Things. I hope you have enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. The Phic does well ending here, and I will not add an epilogue unless the Third Estate of France makes another Tennis Court Oath, which is probably not likely. _Merci beaucoup_, _Cheries. Je t'aime._ And if you didn't get it in the other chapter, _toujours_ means "always" in French.

**Claimer:** I OWN A COMPLETED PHAN-FIC!

_**.o.O.o.**_

Christine was swimming towards wakefulness when a hand encased hers. A face made of two halves met her opening eyes. Erik's cheeks were red and swollen with tears. Fresh sobs skewed his mouth as he stroked her arm. She stiffly righted herself against the pillows. "_Mon ange?_"

"No," he wept, "no, you mustn't call me that. You must listen, Christine." Her eyes flitted to see Raoul and cobwebs in the corner. "The Vicomte and I have discussed many things, and I've come to a conclusion." His voice broke. "Business and Love can never mix. The Opera Garnier… is a business."

"No." She shook her head. Had Christine woken from one nightmare to the next?

"It is, and you cannot live with me anymore. My love and the Vicomte's love for you, we're destroying the theatre. You will only be happy if you can dance and sing on that stage." Raoul stepped cautiously forward. Erik bitterly chuckled. "Ironically, the Vicomte has been persuaded to annul your marriage; he understands that we two must sacrifice our feelings so the arts may embrace you."

Christine began to cry in short, soft gasps. Her life was ending; that was the sole explanation for this breaking inside her chest. Erik, with a look of regret and trepidation, sat on the edge of the mattress and coddled her against his chest. "Christine, I love you. This is the only way I know of protecting you from this world. Be happy. Find someone who can give everything to you. Then I will be happy."

"No." Christine pulled away. "You wouldn't be happy. You're sobbing at the thought of it." He made to flee the chamber, but she gripped his arm. "You wish to protect me? Lend me your embrace. That is how you give everything to me. At least pretend you still love me. I once told you that you were not alone. You cast me away then. If you do again, I will not be pleased; I will die."

Wearily he removed his wrist from her grasp and trudged to the door. His hand was upon the knob when a rapier glinted against it in the firelight.

"Raoul!" Christine gasped, leaping out of bed.

"Le t me say my piece, woman." He held up a warning hand and glared at the man before him. "How does it feel to have the lower hand, Phantom? Listen, you tyrant, I've complied with the annulment and all else you've thrown at me. But I know Miss Daaé well enough to realize she is stubborn. She will refuse your rejection. You love her, you prick." His nostrils flared. "It pains me to say it, but you love her more than I ever did. I saw the fame; you saw the angel. And I wish I could say any passerby in the streets of Paris would be better for her, but I'd be wrong."

Erik turned back towards the room. His jaw had softened from its earlier clenching. "But the Opera, she needs it. You and I, there's too much conflict…"

"And she'll have the Opera." Raoul sheathed his blade. "There shall be no more scandal. Already I've written to the papers, paying them to set this all to justice. The affluent society will flock back to the Garnier in no time." Raoul cast his eyes over Christine as though only now seeing her for the first time. "The managers told me my patronage was no longer needed unless I refuted any claims of relationship with their diva." He smirked, pain of competition obvious on his countenance. "Does it feel nice to win, Ghost?"

The nobleman turned with much promise to Christine. "Little Lotte, I know you've not enjoyed obeying me in the past, but I command you now to choose. You are a free entity again. Make your desire now, before me. It will give me peace. This… _man_… or anyone else in the world. Tell me."

Christine raised her eyes to her soon-to-be ex-husband. "Pardon me for this insolence, Raoul, but Erik. I need Erik."

Sparks popped on the tinder. Monsieur le Vicomte coughed then swept a caricature of a bow. "As you wish, my lady. Now, I must head back to my family's estate." He exited with haste.

The singer took a few timid steps forward, fearing a cringe or word of caution from her former tutor.

"You know, we could move into a flat if you wanted to leave the cellars." Erik murmured. Christine giggled as he grinned in relief and spread his arms. "_Mon ange…"_ She beamed and in return threw herself against him.

Erik found this embrace betwixt Christine and the wallpaper was quite needed. "We have much to discuss, Angel." He murmured into her curls.

She squeezed him tightly as though at any moment he would vanish. Of course, he could in no way blame her. "Oh Erik, I know. That frightens me."

"There is no reason for it to." He smoothed away the tears on her upturned cheek. A whisper soothed her ear. "You are not alone."

Christine laughed as she had in her era of innocence. Her hands reached up to remove the mask. Erik did not move but to caress her waist. "And neither are you. _Toujours._"


End file.
